Mike
by The Lady Nightingale
Summary: Ever wonder if Mycroft had an archenemy? Not sure if this works, but it's been sitting on the desktop looking at me for a while, and I'm not sure where to go next. I'd love to know what people think...


'Bloody hell.' thought the chubby man as he trudged down the back stairs of St Bart's hospital. He hadn't actually been on the roof, but he had seen and heard enough to have a clear idea what had happened. He had known Jim was insane, but seriously. This was not what he had intended. This could muck up several years of planning.

Never rely on underlings.

Still.

There were advantages, he mused as he reached the ground floor, his face automatically assuming an expression of concern as he neared the entrance, his pace increasing. There were seven ways to convincingly fake a suicide leap from this building that immediately came to mind and he was fairly certain the younger Holmes had the necessary equipment and inventiveness to pull off at least four of them. And far too high an opinion of his own importance to not have such a plan in place. This would do nearly as well. The question was: how much had he told his brother?

The concerned expression deepened to include horror and sympathy as he pulled John from the body, bundled him into a cab and directed the driver to Baker Street.

Sherlock had always been Mycroft's point of weakness. The family motto may well have been 'Caring is not an advantage' for the frequency it was repeated, but that didn't mean Mycroft acted upon it. Not when it came to Sherlock, anyway. Mike had figured this out early on, when they'd both started at what was quietly known as 'The Accounting Office'.

The early competitiveness between the young agents had been noted and encouraged. As they progressed through the ranks it had not faded away but hadn't been commented upon, either. RHIP, after all. Eventually it had turned into a sort of game that made the tedium of the trillion tiny details of running the British nation – and occasionally the world – rather more bearable. Mike had never been able to decide exactly what the goal was, but no one was as fun to play against as Mycroft. And as their respective powers grew, so did the intricacies of the game.

Unlike the Holmes', Mike had no source of inherited, independent wealth. It was useful, therefore, to maintain a 'day job' that had the appearance of paying the rent. He had been as surprised as anyone when it had provided the opportunity to score the next point, even if it would take several years.

It was all about distraction, Mike reflected. Sherlock was an excellent distraction for Mycroft from the game he should've been playing – or running the country, for that matter - but keeping Sherlock sufficiently distracted had proved difficult. If he became too bored, he became self-destructive. Of course, cleaning Sherlock up from the drugs and so forth; and tying up the legal loose ends kept Mycroft occupied, but you could never be sure the next overdose wouldn't kill the younger Holmes. So, someone had to be found to keep Sherlock interested, and therefore alive.

A number of possibilities had occurred. There was the funny little mortuary assistant; she was touchingly infatuated with the man, but probably hadn't the necessary intellectual stamina. There was that Woman of course, and a slightly unhinged Irishman Mike had found a few years ago. Of course, the Irishman – Jim - had been able to suggest a further connection, and maybe in a few months all of it would be useful, but none of these ideas would quite do on their own.

When Captain Watson had gotten himself captured by insurgents in Karachi after being shot in the leg, it hadn't even made the news. Small family, one less-than-attractive sister – no grieving prospective widow, or small children, you see, and there had been quite a lot to fill the headlines that week. That had made it all the easier: all that was really necessary was to create a temporary reassignment for his unit and mislay a letter to his sister. The Bart's graduate was reacquired with the minimum of fuss by Mike's people, but not returned quite so swiftly. Mike was fairly certain that the good doctor didn't even recall the original capture let alone the time in the virtually unknown 'Military Hospital' (another misnomer, like the Accounting Office). If Dr. Watson did so it could only be in flashbacks that were so fragmentary as to be of no importance. Mike was therefore possibly the only person in Britain who was aware that that limp was not totally psychosomatic. The shoulder wound was a necessity of course. Unfortunate, but there it was. The man was physically whole when he was returned to his unit, and since his capture had not officially happened, there needed to be some reason to invalid him home.

He had monitored the military man for some time, looking for just the right way to produce the introduction. This definitely could not be left to an underling. Mike had to be sure it was right, that the Military Hospital's suggestions would take root. Then Sherlock had offered him the perfect opportunity. Unbelievable, really. He wanted a flat mate. Having examined the sociopath's bank account, Michael couldn't quite figure out why – perhaps Sherlock had figured out he needed someone to do mundane things like remember to pay the rent, and shop?

"John? John Watson? Stamford, Mike Stamford – we were at Bart's together." Actually they hadn't been, but the Military Hospital was damned clever at things like that. "Sorry, yes, Mike. Hello"

"I know, I got fat," John had made polite noises; "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at, what happened?" As if Mike didn't know, hadn't arranged half of it. Come to think of it, perhaps he should feel bad about that.

"I got shot."

Coffee from the Criterion, a brief discussion of housing prices in London, and a reinforcement of Mike's place as a supposedly old friend with the reference to the sister, then off to Bart's to meet the brother of the man for whose benefit this had all been arranged. Not a bad effort for a morning in London. Or half a year across two continents.

The Military Hospital staff had had some difficulty believing that providing Dr. Watson with an instinctive dislike for and mistrust of one of the highest ranking operatives within the British government was in the nation's best interests. They had done it anyway, and when Mycroft had sought to 'sound out' the man proposing to be Sherlock's flat mate, the training had solidly held. Mike was pleased.

'Have a seat, John.' The reception was grainy and the sound simply awful, but you did what you could. Mycroft had clearly chosen the place for the lack of security cameras.

'I have a phone, you know. I mean, very clever and all that, but you could just phone me, on my phone.'

'When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet – hence this place. The leg must be hurting you – sit down.' Not totally true. The choice of contact method – flashy, Mike sniffed – was about avoiding Sherlock's attention; he was good with mobile phones. The venue was about avoiding Mike. That's why Mike's Anthea had been forced to hack into Mycroft's Anthea's mobile phone.

'I don't want to sit down.'

'You don't seem very afraid.'

'You don't seem very frightening.'

'Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?'

Mike held his breath as John realised he didn't have one. He hadn't foreseen Mycroft phrasing it quite like that. 'I don't have one. I met him …. yesterday.' The slightly puzzled expression could have been because it was an odd question, but Mike fretted John might be becoming aware of the conditioning he had received.

'And since yesterday you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?'

Thank goodness. Mycroft could usually be relied upon to say something snide, and this time it was a good thing.

'Who are you?'

'An interested party.'

'Interested in Sherlock … why? I'm guessing you're not friends.'

'You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?' Of course it was quite possible John Watson would never have trusted Mycroft anyway, but if he had it would have ruined Mike's play.

'I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.' That being the most truthful statement out of Mycroft's mouth for weeks, Mike mused.

'And what's that?'

'An enemy.'

'An enemy?'

'In his mind, certainly, if you were to ask him he would probably say his archenemy. He does love to be dramatic.'

'Well thank God you're above all that.' Mike smiled. He was going to enjoy working with this brave, stupid soldier even more than he'd imagined.

Mike didn't feel the need to watch the rest of that interview; he was confident Mycroft bought John, even though he certainly knew Mike had introduced him to Sherlock's notice. The Blackberry's camera moved with every key the Anthea pressed and it was making Mike slightly queasy. He smiled and went back to his other projects, confident in the divided nature of Mycroft's attention.


End file.
